


do you think of me at night?

by dissociativeclifford



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memories, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Sad, Sad Ending, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissociativeclifford/pseuds/dissociativeclifford
Summary: stan recalls the times he realized he loved kyle, and how he knew kyle could never love him back.





	do you think of me at night?

**Author's Note:**

> try loving your best friend for three years  
> it's not fun

Stan remembers the first time he realized he loved Kyle.

They were in middle school, seventh grade, to be exact, when Stan realized that the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach was not just what people  _ normally _ felt when their best friend hugged them.  He remembers being in a particularly rough depressive episode, and Kyle had just been so  _ warm _ , and his smell was so comforting, and Stan had never wanted Kyle to let him go.

Stan rolls from his side onto his back, sighing deeply as he stares up at the darkness of his ceiling.  If he was in Kyle’s room, he would have seen fairy lights strung where the walls meet the ceiling, but he’s not in Kyle’s room, he’s in his own bed in his own room in his own house and has never felt more alone.

Back in those days, when he was a lot younger and a lot shorter and a lot more naive, Stan had clung to Kyle every second he could.  It was just instinct for him, because Kyle made him feel  _ good _ , and why  _ wouldn’t _ he indulge in such a lovely feeling?

Alas, that all ended when Stan, at thirteen, had convinced himself that Kyle  _ had _ to feel the same way, he  _ must _ .  Quite honestly, Stan’s mostly blocked out those memories by now, but he remembers his confession to Kyle- which was not reciprocated in the least- and how he sobbed out an apology, and Kyle, poor Kyle, had held him and rubbed his back and told him “ _ It’s okay, you’re my super best friend.  Always. _ ”

And Kyle had meant that, for sure.  Stan had been the one to get awkward and isolated after his very unnecessary love-confession.  Kyle, on the other hand, didn’t let him stay sad, making sure Stan was getting out of the house and even trying to set him up with some boys at school.

And eventually, Stan got over his feelings.

At least, he had thought he had.

Now, staring at his blank ceiling with tears rolling down the sides of his face, that assumption is painfully inaccurate.

 

The second time Stan acknowledged his feelings for Kyle, he remembers it hitting him like a brick.

The rest of their middle school years had gone smoothly enough, Stan pushing his feelings to the back of his mind and Kyle being the wonderful friend he is.  Kyle had even started hugging him again, sharing a bed with him again- things were going back to the way they were before.

But Stan’s a romantic, and his true colors weren’t hidden for very long.

He remembers the summer before freshman year, the night they hiked up Phil Collins hill, Stan’s backpack filled with Red Bull and miscellaneous gas-station foods.  He swears he can remember exactly how the stars were aligned, Orion’s Belt right above their heads, when Kyle snuggled up to Stan’s shoulder and announced,

“ _ I’ve been talking to Davíd.  I think he’s into me.” _

Feeling a lump build in his throat, Stan pulls himself out of the memory, instead focusing on the sound of his fan helping stagnant air circle the room.  He should stop this, he knows, and it’s sick- he’s addicted to the pain, to making himself feel so miserable. He  _ needs _ it.

Stan recalls his state of mind after Kyle said those fateful words.  He remembers internally screaming at himself,  _ be a good friend!  Be what Kyle needs!  He doesn’t need this! _

And so, resting his head on top of Kyle’s and covering the lump in his throat with a gulp of Red Bull, he had encouraged Kyle,

“ _ You should go for it _ .”

 

Most recently, and most humiliatingly, only occurred a few months back.

Biting down on his lip, harshly, until he tastes blood, Stan squeezes his eyes shut tight, no longer staring at the cream-colored ceiling above him.  This memory in particular still stings, probably because of the utter humiliation it had caused. Moreso,  _ he _ had caused.

All four of their usual group- being Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny- had gotten together at Stan’s house one spring night.  Stan’s parents had passed out upstairs, and that was a fair enough excuse for three of the four boys to delve into making some sickeningly-sweet vodka cocktails.

The outcast being Kyle, of course.  He still doesn’t drink.

It was very makeshift; Stan remembers pouring the Absolut into a red solo cup along with orange soda, cranberry syrup, and lime mixer, a disgusting concoction that his sixteen-year-old brain had thought was the best thing in the world at the time.

He can’t remember a whole lot about that night, but he can remember the important bits: getting blackout drunk, and Kyle.

Thanks to Snapchat memories, he retains memory of how they were positioned- Kenny’s lanky body was spread out across the big couch, Cartman was taking up an entire air mattress, and Stan was sprawled across Kyle’s lap on the loveseat.  He remembers, this time vividly, how Kyle had leaned over and tapped him on the nose, that sweet smile on his face. His ginger friend had giggled, full-on  _ giggled _ , and told Stan, “ _ You’re tipsy. _ ”

(Though Stan knows he had been a lot more than tipsy.)

Stan, a matching goofy grin on his face, had asked, “ _ You like me more than Davíd, right?” _

Kyle wouldn’t answer.

Later on, the only sober one had gotten up to use the bathroom, and when he returned, Stan had done what his drunken brain thought was just so smooth: fell back down against Kyle’s lap and whispered to him, “ _ Te extrañé, mi querido. _ ”

That’s arguably the worst part of that night to him, the fact that he had drunkenly flirted with Kyle, in Spanish, his thought process being  _ I can say shit in Spanish too, Davíd isn’t special. _

He sobered up a  _ bit _ later on- just a bit.  After isolating himself from the little party, crying in his bedroom, crying in his backyard, and almost throwing up a few times, he had shamefully apologized to Kyle for acting the way he was.  And cried on him, too.

Kyle’s a good friend, Stan thinks.  He knows that.

But the part he still doesn’t understand is the next morning, when Kyle had hugged him goodbye and pressed his face into Stan’s neck like his life depended on it.

 

“Fuck, goddammit,” Stan chokes out to himself, full-on crying by now.  He wipes some tears off his cheeks, sniffles and swallows the disgusting feeling in the back of his throat.

He hates all of this.

He hates loving his best friend in a way that he shouldn’t.

He hates how many mistakes he’s made in the past.

Most of all, he hates how Kyle still puts up with his shit.

Clock reading 1:07AM, Stan shoves his face into his pillow, and somehow,  _ somehow _ passes out within the next few minutes, sure to have a headache and puffy eyes the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone that read this. THESE ARE ALL THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME.  
> i got super drunk on a shitty cocktail, flirted with my best friend in spanish, asked her if she liked anyone else more than me, and then cried for two hours in my backyard. so this is the biggest ventfic i've ever written.


End file.
